Egbert has a small and cult-like internet following.
After finding a handful of videos- mostly taken with phone cameras, nothing professional, not yet- you can’t really say you’re surprised.
It’s his delivery.
Well, it’s not delivery, but… it is his delivery.
He’s mastered the art of the brazen non-sequitur. He sometimes interrupts his own stories with the most unexpected and absurd comments and behaves as though they’re totally related thoughts, and then, just when you start to really wonder, he smiles.
No, that’s not right.
He grins, just grins, all shiny dumbass front teeth like the last two white Chiclets from last year’s Halloween candy, just stands there with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders raised around his ears like a small child who knows that he’s just gotten away with something he really shouldn’t have, and it gets you every fucking time.
He sure as hell doesn’t carry any irony cred, but his diction regresses to elementary school levels whenever genitals are involved, and the sight of the Martha Stewart cookbook- Martha’s American Food: A Celebration of Our Nation’s Most Treasured Dishes, From Coast To Coast, hardcover, of course, it had to be hardcover- you keep nestled between the blender and the microwave makes you think weenie and you can hear him saying it, whispering suddenly like it’s the dirtiest goddamn word in the world and you squat on the kitchen floor with your head between your knees and just fucking shake.
You’re damn certain it’s ironic of you to find him so funny, and that’s good enough for you.
You come home one day to a cake on your stovetop, and think oh shit, this just got real, because it’s one of those lacy-looking three-tiered fondant-laden white and pink wedding monstrosities, complete with plastic bride and groom.
And you’re really not stupid enough to step on the tripwire stretched taut across the bottom of the doorway, but even as you step over it, you see a red light go on and realize that Egbert has finally caught wise to the usefulness of motion detection.
And then the cake explodes and covers you in chunks of sodden pastry- and of course it’s red velvet, super classy, Dickbert, you’re swooning - and very sticky off-white goop. If you weren’t wholly familiar with the exact texture he was going for, you may not have known the difference.
The bride and groom appear to be stuck to your ceiling. You leave them there.
You’re begrudgingly impressed by the bukkake cake.
Belatedly, you wish you had this on film.
You settle into a seat slightly to the left of the stage and sit with your legs spread wide and your duffel bag between them. Your hat stayed home.
No need to tempt the fates.
It’s bright enough onstage that he can’t see you, but when he starts talking about your “weird dumb anime shades” for the benefit of the newcomers, making little triangles in the air with his fingers, the girl beside you does a double-take.
You lift your index finger to your lips.
“-and not only are they vibrating across the carpet, some of them are laughing,” he says, voice dropping conspiratorially like the smuppets will hear him.
You unzip the bag.
You can see the girl beside you staring out of the corner of your eye.
"-just this army of furry butts and weiners vibrating across the floor at me, laughing-"
Despite its bulk, it only takes you seconds to shift the wide barrel and grip it between your knees, but the instant you have it there, you release the propellant.
The moment that first intrepid Cheeto hits him, you know he knows it’s you, because he turns, incredulous and squinting, just in time for the full onslaught.
You’ve never regretted anything less.